From the 2019 Collection "2222"
#222 #2222 #comedy #existential #jmartindean
Sometimes the sky is orange, sometimes it takes a purplish hue— mountains for contrast their dimen… and the light pervades twixt our c… and the light washes down mine fac…
Mojave Desert crushed cars stacked six, seven, ten tall. From the junkyard juts a billboard:
Empty Avenue Death on the the installment plan Righteous lady, insolent man, I patience expired.
I hear now a raucous party in the… Recognizable party tracks fun and… Laughter, joviality, intoxication… An early advent of unseasonal heat and the moment of festival and mat…
Hell came through on battered wings, and thought to ask just one last thing. That If I could,
To be a ghost is to always be aghast— To not know which direction is the future or the past.
Brian told me he held his own guts in his hands, his tattoo reads: ALREADY DEAD.
Therein are the spoils of sorrow, the fruit of hardship, where wind snaps and prevails. Death whispers a hollow secret and I still a shiver
I feel newly acquainted with this skin, everything is novel, intensity is wherever my eyes land,
A Sacred Site is the ultimate emblem, a trophy of the horizon’s finitude… No better a final gate, no more wiser a runway,
She lives no where, has no coordinates, she took me to the gallows, tempted me in the garden and my voice boomed.
It occurs to me now that no one hears my song. Still young, I am discarded. I don’t anticipate being surprised at my aloneness in old age.
There is a most worthy woman, the upper steward of the manor, Obermeyer of Holy Terra, house cute, smokestack simmering,
Love is endless. Mercy, too. A great debt unpaid, sitting on my doorstep, first-class.
A tide of blood, miniature in compare— But an ocean no less, to the virus in there.